


Of Broken Swords and Broken Brothers

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Forgiveness, Gen, Impending Death, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bash visits a sleeping, ailing Francis. A bit of drabble about a tiny memory in Bash's and Francis's relationship as brothers. Relationship is completely platonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Broken Swords and Broken Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to purge some of my Frash feelings. So, for some reason I thought writing this would help? It didn't quite come out like I wanted it to, but…what can you do.

 

He takes his brother’s hand and holds on to it. Clings, like his little brother used to when they were small and their biggest worries were finding the time to wrestle and play and ride. He grasps his brother’s chilly fingers, willing warmth to return. He hangs his head over his brother’s still face. He is so quiet, so…stone-like. His normally pale skin is sickly, deathly white. There are no flushed spots on his face, no healthy glow. His hair is limp and falls strangely around his face. His lips are an icy cream. He looks peaceful, with his eyelids closed. His face is creaseless, relaxed. Yet the stillness of his body is foreboding and odd. Bash feels that he will wake at any time. But he hasn’t.

“Well, Francis.” He rubs Francis’s hand with his own. “Well. We’ve certainly had our ups and downs, then.” He smiles painfully at his brother’s unmoving face. “Have you forgiven me? For the time I stole your sword? Do you remember?” Bash looks down at his feet, laughing at the memory. “It was your first. And you’d just gotten it from the blacksmith. It was your twelfth birthday. Do you remember what I said when you showed it to me? Oh, you were so proud you finally had a real sword. And me, being the jealous, petty bastard, said—I said, ‘You’ll never be able to use that rubbish sword. It’s bent there, do you see? Mine’s much better.’ You were so mad at me. So mad. Livid, really.” He laughs again, sadder this time. “And the next morning it was gone. You should’ve seen the look on your face when I brought it to the practice rooms. We were so foolish.”

He sits back in the creaking wooden chair, never letting go of his brother’s hand. “Have you forgiven me for breaking that same sword? I’ll never forget. Although, really, it was _both_ of our faults. I was the one who proposed throwing it at the trees, but you were the one who agreed. The things we got up to.” He shook his head, a small smile still on his lips. “And you’ll be happy to hear I’ve forgiven you for ratting me out to your mother about your sword. And I’ve forgiven you for messing up the prank we pulled on old Cook. You know. The one where you were supposed to dump flour on her. You must’ve waited hours for her to walk through the door. I suppose I don’t blame you for mistaking her for me, although I got a tremendous lecture from Catherine. Although, you did, too, didn’t you?” He rambles on, laughing and smiling through warm memories and past disputes. “Do you remember what the old days were like? Before Mary? Do you like them better, the days when we spent all our time planning to ride around the grounds when you should’ve been in your studies? When we’d sneak into the kitchens and steal simple food and make a picnic out of it? When we lied and stole and did everything together? It was simpler then, wasn’t it? So blessedly simple.” He looks at Francis’s eyelids, imagining his normally bright blue eyes. Those deep eyes. “I miss them. I want them back, little brother.” He pauses. “I want _you_ back, little brother.”

Bash looks up as footsteps sounding loudly outside the chambers. They stop before the door, hesitate, and move off. Bash returns to his hunched position. “I miss the times when we were just brothers. When we were worried about whether the court ladies liked us. Do you remember your first girl? Jeanne, I think her name was. You were absolutely smitten with her. Snuck out of your rooms to come into mine in the middle of the night. All because you didn’t know how to talk to her, to get her to like you.” He smiles fondly down at Francis. But then his smile twists into a spasm, his lips tugging down. His green eyes cloud for a heartbeat, his voice raspy and thick. “My little brother. My little Francis.

“You’re fighting, aren’t you, little brother? You’re fighting as hard as you can. Don’t let me down, Francis. Don’t let us all down. Fight like I taught you. If there was ever a battle you had to win, it’s this one.” Bash reaches his empty hand to rub his eyes. His voice gets stronger, louder. He _wills_ Francis to fight, to make a miraculous recovery. Pleads with him inside his head. “It’s _this_ one, do you hear me? Come on, Francis. Fight it! For you. For Mary. For _me_.” He slumps in his chair, defeated. “I don’t—I can’t imagine life without you, brother. Well, no, I can. But I don’t…I don’t like it. Please. Please.”

At that moment, a young pageboy pokes his head through the chamber doors. “I’m sorry, sir. The physician needs to see His Majesty.” Bash’s fierce, protective glare causes him to stumble over his words. “He—he’ll need you to leave.”

Bash sighs heavily and stands up, still holding fast to Francis’s hand. “I don’t like leaving you, brother. But I’ll go. To make _them_ happy. That’s what you always tried to do, wasn’t it?” He bends across his brother’s body and presses his lips to Francis’s cold forehead. He whispers gently into his golden hair, “You’re sleeping, little brother. Only sleeping.” He straightens, looking through soft, sad eyes at the still form of the king, lying with white hands clasped carefully. His eyebrows are in a calm arc. Peaceful. A quiet, slumbering king on his deathbed. _No_ , he corrects himself, _not his deathbed. Never his deathbed. Not yet._ “And please, Francis. Please, little brother. _Wake up_.”


End file.
